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Laurence Meier

Pretoria, South Africa


Mmm... have some fun hey ok lets see if you get this who and what am I ....

he strains of the soulful music faded into the pitch-black night, the separate notes seemed to tare and claw at the night sky reflecting the torment and pain that ran thought the fingers from the very soul of the maker

His long jet-black hair stuck to the sweat on his high cheekbones, almost looking like deep scars across his face. The red bandana around his forehead was dark in patches from the perspiration .He stood there his feet apart, arms hanging at his sides holding the violin and bow loosely in each hand.
The light from the camp fire played across the one side of his body and face and touching the high spots of the very colorful detail of the embroider waist coat and the white puff sleeves, the perspiration glisten like diamonds as the light from the fire danced across his broad chest. The rolled up shirtsleeves showed strong brown forearms. He lifted his head slightly and looked at the other caravans nestling in a circle around the campfires, the pain and hurt glowed like hot coals in his dark brooding black eyes.
He slowly moved the bow from his right hand and took it in his left hand with the violin, he straightened his body and threw his head back, his mouth was open as if in a scream but no sound came out. His whole body shook and could have been mistaken for sheer rage; if the fire had not caught the tears as they rolled down his gaunt tanned cheeks.
Shifting his weight carefully from one leg to the other, he bent down and picked up a very ornately carved cane. With slow and deliberate steps, he made his way toward the brightly painted caravan in front of him. If you knew no, better you would have thought him to be drunk. From under hooded eyes, he shot one last look at the other vans,
" Why had they followed him?
"Why had they chosen him?
" What could he do to help them?
"I am only one man and a cripple at that!" he hissed into the night, "yet they demand my very soul."
He leaned against the wooden handrail of the stairs that led to his caravan. He laid the violin down just to the left of the door. His eyes burned with a fury that stemmed from the pit of his stomach fuelled from many long years of struggle.
" Every time I climb you, you rob and steal my strength, taunting me, I can hear your hollow mocking laughter, it rings like a bell in my heart, damn you!" he spat the words venomously at the polished wooden stairs
As he lifted his leg onto the first step, the pain shot across his face making him grit and bare his teeth like a wounded cornered wolf.........

Yup in a chair they call it round legs. Wasnt born like this , I broke a chain letter.
You said have fun
Thanks guys.

Interests: Fly fishing, Photography, reading,

Published writer: No

Freelance: No